Open House
by Anderida
Summary: An Open Day at Wolfram & Hart has surprising consequences for Spike. Please review.
1. Chapter 1 The Pitch

**Open House **Chapter 1. The Pitch

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon, WB and Mutant Enemy, and were made flesh by the actors that gave them life. I borrow them here out of reverence, with respect and for fun, not profit. Joss rocks!

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The silence spoke volumes: nobody shared Lorne's enthusiasm for the plan. "Hey, com'on guys! A bit of support here people!" Lorne threw his arms out imploringly, looking round at his ex-Angel Investigations colleagues gathered in the eponymous champion's office. "This will really put us on the map."

"We're already on the map," moaned Wesley, wearily, "Including the 'Murder, Madness and Mayhem: Dark Secrets of LA' tour maps. What we need is a low profile, not more questionable exposure."

"Questionable? Hey, my friend, haven't you heard, 'all publicity is good publicity'?" Lorne enthused.

Angel cut in, "Wes is right Lorne. We need to keep our heads down for a bit. When the public hear about us they just think 'lawyers to the mob'." Then, seeing that Gunn was about to protest, he added, somewhat abashed, "No offence," and shrugged slightly in Gunn's direction.

"But that's just the point Angel Cake," Lorne continued unrelentingly, "this is our opportunity to show them the other side of Wolfram & Hart; the caring, fluffy side that fights evil and protects the hopeless, erm, helpless."

"Oh." All eyes turned to Fred as she drew in a sharp breath and continued, "Yes, I see what Lorne means. We can show the public how we've changed. Kinda like a big glitzy walking advert for the 'new' us."

"I don't like it, Angel," Gunn began. "Too many things to go wrong. Our clients come to us because we're discrete. You know, the whole 'client confidentiality' bit?" he stressed in an exasperated tone. "Can't say they'd be too thrilled to let us air their dirty linen in public."

"No-one has to 'air' anything, 'less they're wanting to, if course," Lorne argued. "Perry Mason here can run a workshop on how we ensure privacy for our clients. You know: the office soundproofing; the enchanted file room; the anti-seer demons. You don't get that from the public defender's office!"

Angel sighed. "Lorne, I really don't think this is a good idea. I know this is LA but do people really want to attend an open day in a law firm in their spare time?"

"Well, it's got to beat golf!" offered Wesley. Conceding nods from everyone.

Lorne tried again, "Look, Angel Cheeks, we need to get our message over. Wolfram & Hart has changed. We're the good guys now. It's a feel-good story that people want to hear. It's an epic with grit, pathos, integrity, heroics. The screenplay would get James Cameron salivating. I'm telling you Angel, this has the potential to really get this gig buzzin'!"

Lorne's enthusiasm was infectious (but then so was the Black Death).

"Yeah", Gunn was nodding, "I could get one of our senior lawyers to give a talk on our legal successes. Could even persuade a few of our grateful clients to come and mingle over the cheese and biscuits."

Lorne held up his hands in horror, "No offence chum, but I was kinda aiming for an Atticus Finch image, not Judge Jefferies!"

"Sweet guy, the judge," mused Angel dreamily. Then, hearing a universal intake of breath, he added testily, "He got a lot of bad press!"

He scowled at the raised eyebrows around him, "Hey! Darla knew him! He was always good to his mum."

There was a brief, embarrassed silence while each of his co-workers wrestled with the image of Darla, Angel's erstwhile mate, having had some form of relationship (the nature of which they hesitated to speculate) with the 'Hanging Judge', infamous for his 'bloody assizes'.

Lorne tried again, "I guess what I'm saying guys, is that we need to be careful about which bits of Wolfram & Hart we throw the spotlight on. Probably anything that happened here before we came on board is best left in the wings. We want our new programme to be centre stage, to show this is a whole new production, with a new director and fresh cast." He inclined his head to indicate Angel and then the rest of his colleagues.

"Makes sense," conceded Wesley. "And I would certainly welcome the opportunity to show fellow academics around our research library. We have some particularly fine examples of early Sumerian ceremonial parchments, not seen outside of museums and private collections, which I feel would be of singular interest to scholars of Mesopotamian ritual practises and …."

"Hey," interrupted Fred enthusiastically, much to the relief of all in the room but Wesley, "I could do guided tours round the lab! We've got a fabulous new spectral spectrometer which will really wow them."

"That's the spirit, pumpkin," Lorne said warmly, though he doubted anyone on this planet, well, any planet really, would actually be wowed by a spectral whatever, Fred excluded, of course.

Lorne continued, pressing home his advantage, "So it's agreed? Wolfram & Hart will hold an Open House to raise their profile as the champion's law firm?"

Angel scanned the eager faces that had turned to him expectantly. "Aw, okay," he relented, against his better judgement, "but it had better not turn into a pantomime. Oh, and have the mystic mind-cleansers standing by on the day, just in case we need to wipe the memory of any traumatised guest if anything goes wrong."

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"Bloody hell!" stormed Spike. "You want me to what?" He began pacing the room, his black leather duster whipping about his legs menacingly as he turned abruptly back to Angel. "I'm a bloody tour guide now? Bugger me, Angel," (he winced inwardly at the memory) "I don't even work here!"

Angel's furrowed brow furrowed some more. "Look, Spike, while you make use of Wolfram & Hart's facilities, it won't hurt you to make yourself useful around here. It's just one day."

"Just one day? I don't see that timescale is relevant. You could just as well say the Titanic hit the iceberg that did for her, for just 12 seconds. Doesn't minimise the catastrophe any."

"This isn't going to be a catastrophe, Spike. Particularly with you to manage our visitors and ensure they see everything they want to while they're here." Angel tried to sound encouraging.

"Yes Spike," Fred agreed, "you really have _great_ people skills and I know our guests would love the chance to meet with you and hear some of your fascinating tales."

Angel had asked Fred to join him as he felt he needed an ally and Fred had developed a rapport with Spike when she had tried to help him with his non-corporeality issue. And he figured Spike would be less likely to try to hit him if Fred was there, now that he was corporeal again and back to full vampire strength.

"Yeah, I'm good with people, for a vampire like," conceded Spike, "but I still don't see why I have to be part of the 'Wolfram & Hart Show'?"

"Spike, you may not work here officially," sighed Angel, "but not a day goes by without you popping up here somewhere trying to wheedle information, or steal something, or bum cigarettes off of someone."

"Hey," protested Spike, "I don't steal!"

"Oh, please," Angel rolled his eyes, "don't think I don't know who drinks the blood from my thermos in the staff room fridge."

Fred visibly shuddered.

"And," Angel went on, "I bet your place is full of Wolfram & Hart towels from the washroom, and as for stationery…." ('Tight arse', thought Spike.)

"Look" cut in Spike, "I don't steal! I might liberate a few things from time to time, but I'm not admitting anything, okay? And liberating things from an evil law firm's gotta be good, right? Oh, and just so's you know, the blood: that's down to that queer little guy in turtle-necks from Accounting."

"He's a vampire?" Angel asked incredulously.

"Fledgling," confirmed Spike with a nod, "still new to the game, not sure if he knows what his fangs are for." Both Spike and Angel rolled their eyes.

"Hey you guys, can we get back to the Open House?" Fred tried to get the meeting back on track and away from the visions of bloodsucking that were now pervading her mind.

Spike and Angel both sighed and turned back to Fred.

"Ok," agreed Spike, remembering what Fred had said about his people skills, "I'll do it. But on one condition!"

Angel groaned. "What is it?"

"I want the black Viper in lieu of payment for the day!"


	2. Chapter 2 The Day

Open House Chapter 2. The Day

Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon, WB and Mutant Enemy, and were made flesh by the actors that gave them life. I borrow them here out of reverence, with respect and for fun, not profit. Joss rocks!

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The day of the Wolfram & Hart Open House dawned and Angel cast a worried eye (as was his custom) over the banners, bunting and signage that had been strewn around the plush offices to give a welcoming feel and help direct the visitors.

Spike stood beside him looking chipper. "Reckon this is gonna be a bit o'fun today," he predicted.

It hadn't escaped Spike's attention that this might be a good chance for him to impress the ladies with his tales of daring do back in the day. He had paid special attention to his appearance, particularly his hair, slicking it back with a rather fragrant, but manly, pomade. He had decided to keep his duster on while he showed visitors around as it gave him an air of mystery and authority. It also allowed him to stride impressively without looking like a total prat or a refugee from Monty Python's 'Ministry of Funny Walks'.

Angel was very aware of Spike's sartorial efforts and found them pathetic and laughable. He, himself, sported a Versace suit with Jermyn Street bespoke shirt and silk cravat (earning him the epithet 'ponce' from Spike).

Ten o'clock arrived and the law firm's doors were thrown wide. Spike rubbed his hands with anticipated glee.

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By early evening Spike was flagging. There had been a steady flood of interested members of the public and there was no sign of the hoards abating. There was still nearly two hours to go before Wolfram & Hart closed their doors at 8.00pm and Spike cursed the bright spark who had suggested keeping open into the evening to catch people coming home from work.

The last batch he had accompanied round the offices was the largest by far and he had struggled to repeat, for the umpteenth time that day, the exciting stories of how he had single-handedly averted three apocalypses and battled with hideous other-worldly demons. Frankly, he had bored himself with the tales, never mind that his throat was parched from a day talking loud enough for 'those at the back to hear'.

He had tried sloping off around lunchtime for a quick litre of pig's blood but hadn't been able to get away from the 'vampire groupies'; women of a certain age who felt it necessary to crowd his personal space for the opportunity to touch a real 'live' vampire. ("Oi, watch it love! And actually, I am NOT 'live'. I am the UNDEAD! Get it?") He had been so unnerved by this turn of events that he had even regretted the pomade.

He felt hounded by these women; not a feeling he was accustomed to, being a vampire and all. His tormenters recalled Macbeth's witches to mind, and he found the words of the first witch running through in his head intoning incessantly and unbidden, like the unshakable refrain from an irritating tune heard over breakfast:

'I'll drain him dry as hay;

Sleep shall neither night nor day

Hang upon his penthouse lid.

He shall live a man forbid.

Weary sev'n-nights nine times nine

Shall he dwindle, peak, and pine.

Though his bark cannot be lost,

Yet it shall be tempest-tossed.'

There were times that day when, had Spike been a breathing being, he would have hyperventilated and been struck insensible by a series of panic attacks.

He had rarely found himself in a position of wanting to run from any challenge, no matter how ghastly or potentially fatal, but wealthy widows with small dogs clamped under their arms now filled him with more dread than a whole hellmouth of uber-vamps. And sharpened stakes could hardly evoke more terror in him than the sight of twin-sets and pearls.

There had been one highlight, however, that seemed to Spike to be almost sufficient compensation for the tribulations of the day. The first afternoon tour he escorted was very much like the previous, morning ones, but he noticed a striking young woman hovering towards the back of the entourage.

He become aware of her shy demeanour first, such a contrast to the directness (if not pushiness) of most of the others in the group. Spike noted with interest her beautiful soft brown eyes, looking out timidly through long black lashes. Her face was open, with fine, regular features, a pale complexion and long, deep brown hair. Her ivory silk blouse and navy kick-flared skirt showed a slender figure, but she wasn't what you might call 'thin' ('curves in all the _right_ places', thought Spike).

Spike was aware that several times during the tour he had sneaked a glance at her, and at one point realised that, on catching sight of her in profile, he had run his tongue across his teeth in a predatory fashion.

The tour, as always, had ended in the conference room, where Spike encouraged everyone to take their time to look around the offices further and ask staff any questions they might have. As the throng started to disperse, and a weary Spike was considering if he had time to grab a quick mug of blood before the next group of non-golfers, he became suddenly aware that someone was standing beside him.

Mentally slapping his brain back into gear, Spike rose from the desk he was propped against, raised his eyes, and found himself staring into the gentle brown eyes of the young woman from the back of the tour.

"Excuse me, er, Mr, er, Mr Spike," the woman began quietly.

"Just 'Spike', love, he interrupted, with the smoothness of George Sanders.

"Spike," she repeated shyly, "would it be possible, er, I wonder if you'd mind, er, I mean, could I have your autograph please?" and she thrust a pen and a Wolfram & Hart Open Day flyer towards him for him to sign.

Spike was dumbfounded. "You want _my_ autograph, love?" he asked incredulously and not a little flattered.

"Please, if it's not too much trouble. It would be a lovely reminder of the day I was fortunate enough to meet the famous Spike."

"Famous?" Spike's mouth dropped open and he found it difficult to gain control enough to form words again. "You've heard of me?" 'Blimey, I gotta tell Peaches,' he thought.

"Yes," said the vision in ivory and blue, "you battled for your soul back and then saved the world. We owe you so much. Thank you." She looked down at the floor.

"Oh," said Spike, uncharacteristically unable to think of a reply. He checked his heightened senses: No, she wasn't a demon or a vampire, just a regular human. How was it possible that she had heard of him?

Reading the confusion evident in Spike's face, the young woman explained, "I'm a 'sensitive'. That's kind of like a clairvoyant. I 'see' things, you know?"

Spike could only think to say, "Oh," again. He reached across the desk he was still standing against to take to a sheet of blank paper from the tray of a small printer.

"What's yer name, love?" he asked.

"Sophie," she answered.

Spike wrote on the blank page, in a neat copperplate hand: "To Sophie, I hope you will always remember our meeting, Best Wishes." He then signed it 'Spike' and added the date before handing it to Sophie.

"Sorry, love, I don't feel comfortable signing a Wolfram & Hart leaflet. I don't actually work for them," '(or even like them, he thought) "just helpin' out the CEO who's a mate o'mine." Did he really refer to Angel as a 'mate', he wondered?

Sophie had thanked Spike and made her way out of the conference room to follow the rest of her group as they ambled out to explore the remaining delights of Wolfram & Hart.

That had been nearly four hours ago and Spike was finding it increasingly difficult to stop his mind from re-playing the encounter, with certain changes; different things he could have said or done in order to have persuaded Sophie to part with her telephone number.

But for now, after eight straight hours of talking and guiding, he needed to escape from this Open House of Hell. Then, he saw a familiar face across the reception hall and he smirked to himself as a plan came to him. Pushing through the people milling around, networking, admiring the modern architecture or just looking lost, he grabbed the shoulder of the person he sought in the turtle-necked jumper and spun him around to face him.

"Hi, Kevin, isn't it?" Spike grinned.

"Er, Colin, actually," replied the fledgling vampire from Accounts.

"Yeah, like I said, Colin. How yer doing, mate?" Spike's smile broadened. Before giving the shocked fledgling time to reply, Spike continued, conspiratorially, "Couldn't do me a little favour could you Col? I mean, I wouldn't want to have to tell our illustrious CEO who's been swiping his pig's blood, would I?"

Having secured Colin's coerced agreement to meet, greet and guide the remaining batches of visitors, Spike sloped off, hoping to sneak out the tradesman's entrance at the back of the building. Striding down a corridor, he rounded a corner and came up - smack! - right into someone heading equally as quickly in the opposite direction. Such was the force and shock of the collision that both lost their footing and fell to the floor.

"Bloody Hell!" Spike went to raise himself off the ground when he looked across and found himself staring at the young woman who had asked for his autograph earlier, who was now sitting, rather inelegantly, on the floor where she had fallen. As she recognised the person she had collided with she flushed a deep shade of red.

"Hi, again, er..Sophie!" he recalled quickly (that'll score me some points here, he thought). "Sorry, love, let me help," Spike jumped up and proffered his hand to help her back on to her feet (delicate feet, with pale pink varnished toenails, in strappy, high-heeled sandals, with fine, slim ankles, Spike noted with relish).

Taking his hand and jumping quickly to her feet, Sophie smiled nervously, "I'm sorry, it's my fault, really; I should have paid more attention. I hope you're not hurt." She flicked her dark hair back from her face; Spike felt his blood warm a degree.

"Not your fault, love," Spike assured her, when he had forced his mind, and eyes, away from her body. "Should 'ave looked where I was going m'self. You ok?"

"A bit embarrassed, but that will pass. Thank you." Sophie smiled slightly.

"I know a cure for that: a mug of hot chocolate will soon set you right, I know a place that serves 'em with marshmallows." Spike figured, nothing ventured, nothing gained, and before she could politely refuse he continued, "Just finished my stint helpin' out here and was heading off for a mallow-topped hot chocolate m'self. I'd welcome some company, if you've a mind?"

In situations such as these, Spike invariably found that his accent tipped the balance in his favour, and today was no exception. They left Wolfram & Hart together in search of Spike's cure-all.

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Angel had had a hell of a day. He had lost count of the number of people he had greeted, shaken hands with, and generally fawned over.

There had been times during the day when Angel would have gladly returned to his decade of living in the gutter feeding off of rats rather than smile at one more potential client. Smiling was _so_ not his bag. He just wanted the doors to finally close to the great LA hoards and for his employees to leave for their homes. He couldn't take much more and was looking forward to the quiet of the grave when the offices had emptied.

He was sure the day would be a complete waste of time, if not a total disaster, and the only thing that sustained him was the thought that his misgivings about this fiasco would be proved right.

--------------------

Sophie and Spike stared across their hot chocolates at one another. Spike broke the silence first. "So what made you decide to come to the Wolfram & Hart Open House today? You need a lawyer?"

Sophie shook her head gently, "No, I didn't come for the law firm, I came to see you." She lowered her eyes and blushed.

"Me? Soph' I'm flattered 'n all that, but why would you want to see me?" Spike asked her.

"Are you kidding?" Sophie's eyes widened, "You're a hero. There have been rumours flying around that you were back in LA and when I saw you would be at the Open House, I just had to go."

Spike still couldn't get his head round this. "There were rumours? About me?"

Well in certain circles, yes," Sophie explained. "I belong to a kind of underground movement. We know what's going on around us, with demons and vampires and stuff. We're not blind like the rest of the human population. Most of us are sensitives, you know, people with insight, people who can detect auras, divine energy paths, that kind of thing. Our minds aren't closed, so we are able to understand what's going on, hellmouths and the like."

"You know about the hellmouth?" Spike was flabbergasted. She seemed so _normal_.

"The one you closed in Sunnydale, and the one in Cleveland!" Sophie smiled at Spike's dumbfounded expression. "Don't worry, your secret's safe with me!" She laughed and Spike felt his blood warm a notch again.

"I'm staggered, pet; I never thought ordinary folk were aware of the universe I inhabit." A thought suddenly occurred to Spike, "Does that mean that you know that I'm, that I'm a …"

"A vampire?" Sophie asked, her eyes creasing with a small smile. "Yes, of course. We're not so shallow as to tar everyone with the same brush. We treat everyone on their own merits and we recognise there are good vampires and bad humans. Remember we can see auras; feel a being's spirit; good or bad."

Her revelation had stunned Spike and he knew he wanted to find out more about these incredible, perceptive people, and about Sophie in particular.

"And you don't mind that you're having a mug of hot chocolate with a vampire?" he asked hesitantly.

"A _good_ vampire! No, of course not. I told you we judge people on their spirit, and yours is admirable, even before you gained your soul. I'm honoured to be here, in fact, I kind of hoped…" She didn't finish.

Spike started laughing. "I know, pet. You forget, vampire senses here! I knew what you were up to the moment you joined the tour, though you certainly took your time, another couple o'minutes and I'd 'ave been outta there."

"You knew?" Sophie was mortified.

"You haven't cornered the market in instinct you know," he chided lightly. "I picked up you were there for some specific reason. Body language, smell, eyes avoiding me. Then of course you bash into me nearly four hours later. Four hours! I know Wolfram & Hart is big but it ain't that interesting. So, I figure you were hangin' around for a reason. Plus, you didn't take much persuading to come here with me did you?" Spike smirked at her, his head cocked enquiringly to one side.

"Ok, ok, it's a fair cop," Sophie giggled. "Yes, I did go to the Open House to meet you, and yes, I did spend hours trying to pluck up the courage to go back and speak to you again. I'd just decided to go and find you when I ran into you."

"Well, Soph, you do an old vampire's ego the power of good."

Sophie's arm was resting on the table between them and Spike reached out and gently ran his fingers down her forearm and across the back of her hand. He felt an answering tingle pulse back through his fingers. He raised a scarred eyebrow, "Fancy dinner?" he asked.

As they left for a restaurant, Spike thought to himself, 'Poor bint, doesn't know who she's playing with here. I've been doing this for more than a century; she doesn't stand a chance.'

Then he wondered when it was that he had last put clean sheets on his bed.

-----


	3. Chapter 3 Debriefing

Chapter 3. **Debriefing**

**Once more with feeling**: Disclaimer: These characters belong to Joss Whedon, WB and Mutant Enemy, and were made flesh by the actors that gave them life. I borrow them here out of reverence, with respect and for fun, not profit. Joss rocks!

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The next afternoon, it was business as usual at Wolfram & Hart, except for the CEO and his 'gang' who were now ensconced in the conference room to review the results of the Open House.

Sinking down into a leather upholstered executive chair, Angel sighed and stretched back, trying desperately not to let his thoughts dwell on the previous day's events, which, he felt, had come close to traumatising him.

Lorne had entered the room like a Kansas tornado. "Wow, Angelheart, did yesterday not rock your boat?"

The green demon was hyper and far too chirpy and animated in Angel's opinion. "Our exit polls show 92 percent of our visitors agreed, or totally agreed, that they would consider using our services in the future. 92 percent Angel! That's oodles of new business. We have just taken centre stage and sent our rivals fleeing to the back of the chorus line." Lorne was exuberant.

Unfortunately, Lorne's high spirits were matched with equal ferocity by Angel's gloomy despondency, as he sunk further down, both figuratively and literally.

Gunn, though, mirrored Lorne's sentiments, "That was just _way_ cool! I must have had over 100 business cards thrust at me and I have a dozen invites to breakfast meetings. I met three district judges and they all intimated that they were eager to come on board, in an off-the-record sense, of course."

Wesley and Fred (who had arrived together, both looking a little flushed) also started regaling Angel with tales of the successful day they had had. Fred's eyes were shining and she was speaking so quickly it was difficult for Angel to distinguish the individual words. And Wesley was more animated than Angel had seen him since the night he danced with Cordelia at the hop at Sunnydale High.

Angel was scowling more heavily than usual as he listened to Lorne, Wesley, Gunn and Fred report on the highs and lows of the previous day's events. The general consensus was that things had gone extremely well, and that they should expect more business and enjoy a more positive image with the public.

Angel groaned and was about to tell everyone to clear out and leave him to think (although 'brood' would have been a more honest description), when he heard Lorne mention Spike. In spite of himself, Angel tuned in to what was being said about his grandchilde.

"Phenomenal," Lorne was saying, "Spike aced the tour guide thing; the best rating of all departments, although for some reason the comments are not so hot for the last two tours, but overall the feedback for Spike has been just SPEC-TAC-U-LAR!

I mean, I have to confess," Lorne rattled on, "I've never really 'got' Spike, all that black leather, so passé; and that punk music he likes; no melody, too few chords; and don't get me started on the lyrics; but boy, that vamp has got the common touch. Spooky! He's a real asset to Wolfram & Hart."

"Lorne, Spike doesn't work for Wolfram & Hart," Angel snipped. "This was a one-off contract and it cost me my Viper." _Could this get any worse?_

At just that moment, Spike strolled in late and dropped into a free seat, apart from the rest of the team, with a smile playing on his lips like the cat who's had the cream. _Yes, it could!_

It didn't go unnoticed and Gunn commented, "Sounds like you had a successful day yesterday, Spike. And had a good time, judging by that smug look!"

The smug look became a broad grin as Spike replied, "Mustn't grumble."

"I'll say not, Spikey-baby" interjected Lorne, "You were on top form yesterday."

"Yep, I was, wasn't I?" Spike murmured as he recalled his night with Sophie.

"Seriously," Lorne continued, "you have red-hot people skills."

"Guess I have, at that," Spike smirked. "Never heard it called 'people skills' before but, hey, 'red-hot' certainly describes it." His eyes glazed and he appeared to drift off, caught up in his memories.

Angel cut in to Spike's reveries and recounted in a monotone, "I should tell you that I've had several companies contact me to ask how to get in touch with you to offer you jobs with them, since you don't work _here_." Angel shot a pointed look at Lorne, his scowl becoming deeper, if that was even possible.

"Wow, Spike," Fred squeaked, "that's brilliant! Oh, but of course, we'll miss you here greatly." She looked abashed.

"And an agent I know wants to talk to you about fronting a reality TV series," added Lorne, followed by more squeaking from Fred.

"Way to go, Spike," Gunn enthused.

"Yes, Spike," admitted Wesley, "I really think you were the hero of the hour. Lorne's statistics are irrefutable; you made an excellent impression on our visitors, and that is sure to translate into a serious amount of new business, not to mention an enhanced public image for us."

Spike cocked his head on one side, "Thanks, mate but just doing m'job."

------------------------

Sophie let herself in to her apartment, throwing herself onto her sofa and trying to stop the grin on her face from swallowing her up completely. This was difficult to do since she felt the grin was radiating from inside her, and she felt deliriously happy.

"Wow," she said out loud to the empty flat. She couldn't believe it had been so easy to get a night with Spike. Or _so_ good!

She wasn't the sort to hang around stage doors for a sight of the latest darling of the stage and screen, but to pass up an opportunity like yesterdays would have been criminal. An acquaintance of hers had once bragged about attending film and TV conventions in order to give her phone number to certain actors, and this had shocked Sophie. She hadn't believed that actors would avail themselves in that way.

But now she had had an opportunity to test the theory for herself and the results had surpassed her wildest dreams.

All her fellow sensitives knew of Spike, the Slayer of Slayers, turned champion of the world. He was renowned in her circles for his strength of purpose, his warrior nature, his devotion to his former lover Drusilla, and, of late, his heroism and selflessness.

There had also been rumours that he was, well, (Sophie blushed at the thought) a skilful lover. Well, rumours no more, she thought, her grin now of Cheshire Cat proportions. Last night Sophie had, for the first time, experienced a truly sensual, erotic, but somehow immensely loving union, which had made her reconsider her relationships with previous lovers (and set an improbably high benchmark for future lovers, she thought ruefully).

Spike had been attentive, giving, demanding in a way that made her feel wanted not used. He had held her, caressed her, tasted her, loved her and rocked her world! She realised that her face was now aching from grinning so much, but that just made her grin even more.

She knew of Spike's reputation, after all, he had seduced a Slayer no less, so she had no illusions about him. She knew she would only have that one night (oh, how she wished for more), and she could feel a deep sorrow that she would never be more to him than that. But she was so glad her determination had prevailed and she had sought him out, because to have missed out on being loved by Spike, even if just for one night, would have impoverished her life immeasurably.

---------------------

Spike sat in an anonymous hotel bar and contemplated the events of the previous day. Fortunately, his evening with Sophie had completely erased his memories of the 'weird sisters' groupies, and he could only think back to how successful the Open House had been for him, professionally and personally.

"Bloody Hell," he breathed, as he thought about the outcomes. Other companies wanted him to work for them, hell, even a TV company had been impressed. Spike couldn't remember a time when he had ever been wanted, except perhaps by his mother and by Drusilla, but that, he felt, had been due to instinct rather than intellect. This was different; other people had seen merit in him beyond the natural inclination of a mother or lover. He had never had that before, not even from Angelus, his clan leader, who, Spike had always known, had despised his grandchilde.

Then there was the car. Not only had he successfully negotiated for the car as his fee for the day, but he had really upset Angel by demanding the Viper, Angel's favourite (the reason Spike chose it).

But Spike's broadest smirk was at the thought of Sophie. He had hoped to run in to some potential dates yesterday but never someone as perfect as Sophie. First of all, she knew he was a vampire, and that meant Spike didn't have to worry about when to broach that particular issue.

His experience was that women could be so unpredictable when it came to learning that their date was a card-carrying member of the undead ('no love, not the _Grateful Dead_, the _UNDEAD'_). Some seemed to enjoy the thrill, but those were usually the ones he tired off quickly. He typically fancied the other sort, the ones that screamed and ran off on hearing he sometimes sported fangs and a bumpy forehead. Didn't exactly make for a successful track record at dating.

But Sophie totally got him. She knew he was a vamp and wasn't fazed by it. Plus she knew he was a good vampire ('but I'm still evil, right?') so he didn't have to bore himself silly trying to explain things even he didn't really understand.

And as for the sex, well, 'compatible' or what! Tilting his head to one side, Spike's tongue slid over his teeth as he recalled the luscious evening he had spent with Sophie. He hadn't enjoyed himself that much in months, well, since Buffy really.

Okay, Sophie wasn't Buffy (the Immortal having put paid to his fantasies in that direction) but she showed promise and was way eager to learn, proving to be an assiduous student. Yes, he could work with her on that. He growled in satisfaction and in anticipation of further nights of instruction.

As Spike reflected on the results of the Open House he congratulated himself on a job well done. He'd got respect from his colleagues for his efforts and he had impressed potential employers so much that they wanted to offer him work, including on TV.

Spike grinned his trademark smirk as he realised, triumphantly; "Bloody hell! I got the car; I got the girl, and I royally pissed off Peaches! Does life (unlife?) get any better?"

Not bad for a day's work!

- Fin -


End file.
